


Speaking To Stone Soldiers

by dillydallybutterfly



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-18
Updated: 2013-04-18
Packaged: 2017-12-08 20:01:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/765414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dillydallybutterfly/pseuds/dillydallybutterfly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The graveyard is a lonely place, but John Watson still doesn't really feel alone when he's there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Speaking To Stone Soldiers

The thick grass is plush and soft under John’s black loafers. They still retain their gloss, clean-edged and fine-laced. Sherlock might have deduced something from their condition; deduced that John has owned these shoes for years but considers them too nice for him - except Sherlock is dead, buried beneath unfeeling earth that cares not for how much John misses him. John vaguely remembers a time when he had hope. Those times were dark, lonely and filled with a strange ache, but there was a beacon of hope that shone constant and pierced through the dull fog. That light shone in the form of Mary, John’s- well, she isn't any more, to say the least. John sighs, the sound of a man far beyond his years, and scuffs at the grass with his toe. For a cemetery, the grounds are very well kept.

Every time John visits the cemetery, he finds himself in tears. It’s not even a voluntary thing; the sadness and pain are always there, but he contains them well enough (except for when he’s in bed, and then they spill out quite often) on most days. Whenever he’s here, however, his emotions escape no matter what he does to keep them in and stands in silence until they pass. John’s weakness is his own - no one should have to suffer it but him. It really does hurt, though, bottling it all up. He supposes what they say is true - that holding it in makes it explode all the more violently when he can’t pen it up any more.

John can see his wife’s grave in the distance. He remembers her arms, warm and safe, wrapped around him, and the feeling of his own arms around her. She used to smell of strawberry jam with a faint hint of cocoa - it was a strange combination, to be sure, but it was utterly Mary’s. John remembers how that sweet smell seemed to fade, swamped by the medical scents of antiseptic and disinfectant. They were sharp and astringent, and it made John think of false things, like fake flowers and the glass eyes of an animal that had gone through taxidermy. John scuffs his shoes in the grass and looks down at them, watching the dewy grass leave smears and droplets on the leather sheen. He glances over to his left, recognizing some of the graves. He passes by them often, after all, when he goes to visit his wife. John wonders sometimes who they were – they must have been spouses, or children, or parents – and how much they were missed by the people they’d left behind. He regularly sees bouquets on several of the graves, but never brings any himself. John always brings other things, because professionally-arranged bouquets, bought from some flower shop, seems false and sour as the smell of disinfectant that sometimes still makes John stop in his tracks. So instead he finds things – little things that remind him of the people he’s lost – and brings them to the sad little headstones that are all he has left, so he can talk with them as if they are still there. It’s sad; John knows how sad it is, but he can’t help clinging to the last shreds.

When John stops at Mary’s tombstone, he has to fight back the tears for a second. He hasn't even said anything yet, so he scrubs the back of a hand roughly against his eyes and kneels down on the soft grass. Reaching around, John holds out a spray of strawberry blossoms. Some of the tiny flowers are beginning to grow, the center bud swelling into what would have been a berry if John had not plucked them from their plant.

“Hello, love. I missed you last weekend, I’m sorry I couldn't come. Business, you know. It was the strangest thing; I decided to get off the taxi a tad early and walk a bit. A sort of breather. As I was walking, I smelled strawberries and cocoa and I nearly tripped. Of course, it was just some strawberry plants, but there was a sort of little farmers market. There was a stall with some young strawberry plants, and the man there had some cocoa beans as well, I think. I bought two little plants – I’ll plant one here, for you to watch over, and I’ll plant the other one at home. We’ll both take care of them.” John smiles, eyes watering through the fond expression. He holds up his little potted plant, and the plastic trowel he’d purchased as well. Slowly, he buries the plant in the earth next to the gravestone. It stands, young and fresh and beautiful against the loneliness of the grave, and suddenly John decides he’ll plant more. Mary was always surrounded by life, and that’s how it should be.

John brushes off his knees when he’s finished talking to Mary. He takes a handkerchief from his pocket, neatly folded and creased, and holds it to his eyes as his entire body quivers with sorrow and pain. After a scant few minutes, he straightens and clears his throat. The sound comes out embarrassingly squeaky and feeble. Now he has to walk to Sherlock’s grave. It takes nearly half an hour. Finally he lays the strawberry blossoms cross Mary’s grave and blows a last kiss to her, but he takes a few steps backwards before he turns around. It seems wrong to just leave without a proper goodbye.

John remembers when he first stood in front of Sherlock’s grave and begged him, begged – his throat clenching and convulsing so much that his words came out garbled and weak and full of breath – that he not be dead. Begged for anything but that. John remembers telling his ex-flatmate, as if he were standing in front of him, about all he’d done for the army doctor. Even when Sherlock was alive and ignored every word that came from his mouth, John never felt like he wasn’t there. He’d never felt alone; not once did he feel lonely, and often it was quite the opposite, leaving him feeling overcrowded and dizzy.

Now that Sherlock is gone, though, John feels ten times more alone than he ever did. Losing Mary made him feel even more lonely, true, but it was a different kind of loss. When John lost Sherlock, he found himself searching constantly. It wasn't so much noticing that Sherlock was dead, it was just noticing the Sherlock-shaped gap that he’d left behind. John still finds himself turning to say something, then flinching back when the person he wants to say it to isn't there. Mary’s loss is more of a fog that John finds himself recognizing but not looking for, because it surrounds him and makes everything around him look hazier.

John nearly trips over a grave and catches himself at the last second, almost reaching out for the lanky, black-jacketed arm that he expects to be there. He stops for a second, unbalanced, and takes a long breath. His eyes sting. He presses the heels of his hands to his lids, shoulders shaking a little, then straightens. God, what would Sherlock think? Sentiment, John.

John stops in front of the lonely grave; sits down cross-legged on the grass and sighs heavily.

“Sherlock Holmes, whatever will I do with you. I didn't bring you any flowers, sorry, but I did find this.” John holds up a pair of metal charms, attached to a silver chain. The charms are larger than any a woman would wear on a bracelet or a necklace. One is the deerstalker hat – the one Sherlock hated so much – and the other is a little magnifying glass, complete with a circle of polished crystal.

“I know it’s ridiculous and sentimental, but I saw them in a little stall at that farmer’s market – a sort of artsy-craftsy thing. The owner of the stall recognized me; she said she believed in you, Sherlock. ‘I believe in Sherlock Holmes.’ It’s a sort of new slogan. I saw it spray-painted on someone’s garden wall. I bought a poster, too, because I thought, you know, you should know that you’re still the best and most human man I’ll ever know. It’s a reminder. You should always remember how important you were – are.” John takes the chain, and lays it beside the headstone, just above the soil. He spreads out the poster; it’s small, only six-by-eight because if it was too large it might seem garish against the solemn air of the grave. He rests stones on each of the four corners, smaller ones around the edges holding it down. For a little while longer, John talks with his ex-flatmate, his eyes flooding with tears again. In the peace and quiet of the graveyard, John just talks.

Eventually, though, John feels his legs cramping and the air turning colder. Kerchief still tucked against his now-swollen eyes, he staggers to his feet. He clears his throat again, wondering why he does this to himself twice a week, but he knows the reason.

“I’ll- I’ll see you around, then,” John mumbles. He’s turning to leave, eyes foggy and tired, when he halts suddenly and looks back at Sherlock’s grave.

“Oh, and Sherlock? Don’t be dead.” The last three words he always says, the same way anyone would say good-bye. It’s sort of strange; at first, he found it extremely difficult to say, as if he were begging it. Now it just feels natural. As if he knows Sherlock isn’t coming back, but he refuses to acknowledge that. Of course Sherlock is coming back.

As John walks away from his last friend’s grave, the words in bright yellow blaze back at him, followed by a smile. Sherlock’s blue scarf twists in the background, sharp contrast to the happy golden wording. John doesn’t look back at the little card sitting on the earth.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, still have no idea. I'm just reposting my favourites from the drabble blog.  
> If anyone has any suggestions for anything longer I'm totally up for it. I can't write long stuff without help on a plot, honestly.  
> Drabble blog: dilly-dally-butterfly.tumblr.com and you can send an ask there?  
> Also, the card in reference can be found at my dA here: http://spirited-butterfly.deviantart.com/art/I-Believe-in-SH-325142165


End file.
